No Third Option
by jesusisback
Summary: There are very few ways to destroy a genius. The best way to watch them fall is to give them a choice: to sacrifice their heart or to keep it, and have pain regardless of their choice. PostReichenbach, JW/SH relationship is the same as it is in the series


**A/N: Hello and welcome to my Wholock story! I've never written crossovers before, but I hope this fact doesn't deter you from reading my story out. Some info: This would take place after The Wedding of River Song for the Doctor, and I start the story during Reichenbach for Sherlock (so don't read it unless you've seen Reichenbach because of spoilers). on with the show!**

**disclaimer: i wish i owned them**

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

"Oh come on, don't do that! I thought you were supposed to be _sexy!_"

The floors of the TARDIS shook and the Doctor grabbed onto the railings to steady himself. The shaking subdued for the briefest of moments and the Doctor threw himself at the control system, hurriedly hitting the glowing buttons and pulling levers—no doubt that most were being pulled in directions they weren't built to be pulled in—all in hopes undoing whatever it was that caused his precious time machine to malfunction. There was a loud _bang_ somewhere behind the Doctor's back that caused him to jump; he turned to see a silver pipe sever in two and emit a thick, charcoal smoke. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver from the breast pocket of his jacket and used it to analyze the smoke. He held the sonic screwdriver up to his face and read the results.

"Not good, not good, very not good," The Doctor muttered and tried another few buttons; they beeped in protest. The Doctor's dark green eyes scanned the various switches and knobs. There must've been at least one toggle that could stop the chaos around him. His eyes affixed themselves onto a certain button: a big, red, circular button. Had he tried it yet? It certainly looked promising, and if anything, it certainly couldn't have made the situation that much worse.

The Doctor skidded over to the button, stumbling as the TARDIS continued to violently quake. He grabbed onto the control system for balance once again and looked at the red glow of the switch for a moment before taking a deep breath.

"Geronimo," and so the Doctor held his breath as he forcefully threw his hand down onto the button, a mix of curiosity, panic, and pure excitement coursing through his veins.

For an incredibly brief moment, everything seemed to still: the floors ceased to shake, the crumbling piece's of the TARDIS' interior froze as they dangled off their hinges, and the flashing lights held a dim glow. However, through this stillness, the Doctor focused on one thing: the beat of Bee Gee's _Staying Alive_ playing in the background. The Doctor sighed; now he remembered why he never pressed that red button: it was for the radio. The Doctor didn't have time to dwell on why the TARDIS even had that function because the chaos around him ensued once more, only now it had the almost comical musical addition. He pressed the button again, abruptly cutting the vocal's off during the chorus, and went back to focusing on how to stop the TARDIS from combusting. The Doctor wasn't able to go far though because shortly after, that grey smoke had spread itself around the entirety of the TARDIS and threw the Doctor into a fit of coughs. He pulled up the collar of his tweed jacket over his nose and mouth in an attempt to keep the toxins out of his system; the Doctor knew he couldn't last long in the confined area of the TARDIS for long with the threat of even more poisonous fumes leaking from other pipes.

His eyes fell upon the one lever that he was so familiar with and yet still couldn't control completely after traveling for a millennium. The Doctor pressed a familiar set of buttons and pulled the lever, hoping that his machine knew well enough to choose a convenient landing spot.

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><p>This is it. He had gotten past all the pawns and was now face-to-face with the king. By no means was this a checkmate, but he had found the single flaw in his opponent's strategy; the king was in check. Surrender now or risk losing it all. Sherlock only allowed a sliver of triumphant pride to break through as he studied Moriarty's reaction.<p>

"No, you're me," Moriarty stated in that irregular, slightly Irish accented voice of his. "You're me. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes," and the shorter man extended his hand forward slightly. Sherlock's eyes flickered to it for less than half a second and he instead kept his focus on picking apart Moriarty's thoughts. His gesture expressed gratitude and even his face seemed to hold the sentiment as well, but something was off: there was still that devilish trait lingering in his dark eyes. The game wasn't over yet. Sherlock nudged his own hand forward to reciprocate the gesture.

"Thank you," Moriarty repeated as he firmly gripped the other's hand and shook it slightly before continuing in a whisper, "bless you." He paused for a moment and averted his gaze to one of the buildings in the distance. In tone that almost seemed to hold his recognition of defeat, Moriarty said, "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You got a way out." He paused again and looked back up at the consulting detective; his victorious and demonic personality had resurfaced.

"Well good luck with that."

Moriarty swiftly pulled out a revolver and, placing the cold, metal barrel in his mouth, pulled the trigger without a moment of hesitation.

The hand that once firmly grasped Sherlock's went limp and Moriarty collapsed backwards onto the hard rooftop of Bart's. Sherlock was accustomed to seeing the most mutilated and contorted corpses, but Moriarty's was different: the crimson liquid pooled around the back of his head, the scarlet appearing to be an infernal crown upon his skull; his eyes remained open, but instead of looking cold and listless, the same wicked glint had remained as the blue and whites of the sky were reflected on them. This was not the corpse of a man, but a permanent still of a manic king gazing over his kingdom.

Sherlock took a few steps backwards. His plan, it worked.

_Moriarty was dead_.

Before meeting him on he rooftop, Sherlock had theorized that this could've been one of the possible out comes of their meet. He knew Moriarty was willing to give up anything for the sake of their game. That's the thing with geniuses: they're bored, they want recognition, and above all, they are confident. Sherlock knew that if Moriarty was confident enough in his plan, that if he was sure that there was not a single way for Sherlock to escape his villainous grasp, then he'd even sacrifice himself; all in order to eliminate all unfavourable outcomes. He had to believe he'd be victorious even in death.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Moriarty had made his turn, now it was his.

He walked over to the edge of the building and looked down onto the street. He nodded with content upon seeing that everything he needed was set into place, all except one thing; one person who he had to wait for. Sherlock frowned slightly; he knew all the possible outcomes of what this would do, and even though he personally disliked quite a few of them, he had to take the risk. He had to risk everything: his reputation, his work, _his_ _friend_, all of it could be lost in just a few moments.

Taking another deep breath, the detective slowly lifted both his feet onto the ledge. Sherlock affixed his eyes back down to the street bellow as he waited for him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened. He heard the faint murmurs of the people talking below him, the screeching of car wheels—Sherlock's eyes shot open. He heard this strange noise coming not from the streets, but from behind him. It sounded like the whistle of the gusting winds, yet it didn't sound natural in the slightest, nor was there anything on the rooftop to even cause such a sound. He felt a sudden, but brief breeze as the noise continued, and finally, turned around to see what its source was. Sherlock's forehead crinkled in confusion as he furrowed his eyebrows together.

At the center of the roof was a blue Police Box.

Sherlock quickly began taking mental notes of the mysterious object:

_1960's London Police Box; slightly battered and worn, but in good condition for the most part—obviously not a real box, but a replica; windows are tinted and unable to look though—either something important or nothing is held inside; the light on its top stopped flashing the moment the noise and the breeze stopped—they must be related to how the box was transported here; no one else was on the roof to leave it here nor are there any traces of how the box was transported here—the Police Box must've materialized itself onto the roof; the light and the noise must've indicated the box's arrival and the breeze was a result of its sudden materialization._

Sherlock heard the faint clinking of locks and a cough from within the blue box as its left door swung open, a cloud of black smoke escaping through the frame. Through the thick clouds, the Doctor sprinted out of the Police Box and stood a few feet away as to avoid the fumes. The Doctor spun around to observe his surroundings, but stopped when he noticed Sherlock at the edge of the rooftop.

"Oh, hello!" The Doctor gave his trademark smile and took a step closer to the man. "Can you tell me where I am? Oh, and what year is it?"

By the time the Doctor finished talking, Sherlock had already deduced as much as he could about the stranger:

_Male in his late twenties, but doesn't dress like it with the tweed jacket, striped shirt, and bowtie; boots are scuffed and a bit dirty—he's been running; condition of boots contrasts with clothes—doesn't dress for the high amount of activity so its logically not a part of a uniform schedule or employment; clothes are wrinkled and hair is disheveled—he was doing something in a rush; black smoke coming out of the Police Box—possibly a malfunction of some sort from inside the box and he was trying to fix it; good posture, speaks quickly without stuttering, keeps eye contact—natural confidence in self, most likely intelligent; eyes carry the same enthusiasm as the rest of him appears to, however there is a faint trace of a darker emotion—he's haunted by his past._

"London, 2012," Sherlock answered.

"Ooh! I haven't seen the Queen in a while, I should stop by—no, she might not gotten over about what happened with the escaped cat—" the Doctor began rambling, but stopped mid-sentence when his eyes fell upon the crimson trail that led to Moriarty's body. The Doctor's mien became serious as he glanced at Sherlock.

"You didn't shoot him?" He said, noting that the silver weapon laid in Moriarty's palm on the floor.

"No, he did that himself," Sherlock answered and carefully observed as the Doctor crouched down next to Moriarty.

"And you just let him do that?" The Doctor stared at the disturbingly triumphant visage of the corpse and felt a chill run down his spine. Even after meeting thousands and thousands of people and alien species alike, the Doctor still had the ability to remember everyone's face, for each one of those people were important somehow and worth remembering, but as he stared at the wicked, open-mouthed grin and crazed eyes of the body beside him, he knew he had never seen this man before and yet he looked oh so familiar. Whoever this man was, while he was alive, he must've done something great.

"I gave him a choice, and that's what he chose," Sherlock responded as the Doctor stood up and walked towards him. "Who are you?" The detective asked. This stranger didn't appear to be of a threat, but neither did Jim Moriarty during their first encounter.

"I'm the Doctor."

"Sherlock Holmes."

The Doctor looked at him for a moment in confusion. It took most people a few moments to accept the fact that he had no name other than 'Doctor', but Sherlock wasn't put off in the slightest; he already anticipated that this man would have some abnormalities about him and he didn't care much for people's names unless they were important. Sherlock looked over the edge of the building to look at the street once more; his eyes were immediately drawn to the black cab slowing down a block away from the hospital. He took a deep breath; it was time. He turned his back to the Doctor, pulled out his mobile, and dialed a familiar number. "Excuse me, but there's something I have to do," he said quickly to the Doctor before pressing the phone against his ear.

"_Hello?"_ Sherlock heard John's voice through the receiver.

"John."

"_Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"_ The detective saw his friend exit the cab and begin his walk to the hospital.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," Sherlock ordered quickly. John had to stay a distance away if this was going to work. The Doctor watched Sherlock quizzically, trying to figure out for himself what this new acquaintance was doing, and then he looked over the ledge himself, and pinpointed the man who Sherlock was talking to.

"_No, I'm coming in—"_

"Just do as I ask—please," Sherlock choked out and both John and the Doctor froze. John sensed the urgency and unfamiliar plead in Sherlock's tone so he worriedly began walking back to where the cab left him. Even though the Doctor had only known this man for just a few minutes, the Doctor quickly assessed his character and that previous statement didn't fit it in the slightest; something was wrong.

However, the Doctor had no time to see what it was. There was a _bang_ from inside the TARDIS and the Doctor immediately ran to his favourite companion. When he entered, he was pleased to see that most of the smoke had cleared out already and she was already in a slow process of reparation, but there was still something wrong. He ran up the stairs to the TARDIS' control panel, and his eyes scanned the buttons and wires, making sure that they were all connected properly—or at least what he thought was the proper way. He grabbed the small, hanging scanner and pressed the key codes to begin a damage assessment. The small screen protested and, instead of displaying the assessment, produced its equivalent of a television's test card.

The Doctor sighed; it looked like his TARDIS might not be functional for some time. Perhaps there was something here in London that would occupy his time while he waited, there usually was. Deciding that there was nothing he could do right now to fix his TARDIS, the Doctor made his way back outside and locked the doors. He turned to see the mysterious corpse lying just as it had been before and Sherlock, standing on the ledge of the building and talking on his phone.

"—for me?" The Doctor overheard Sherlock plead with the person on the phone.

"_Do what?"_ Sherlock heard John ask.

"This phone call, its—its my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"_Leave a note when?"_ John asked, allowing the panic to seep into his voice. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Goodbye, John."

Hearing this, the Doctor now realized Sherlock's intentions and started running to the edge of the building in hopes of saving him.

"_No, don't—"_ Sherlock heard John begin to protest, but he tossed the phone aside. It was time.

"No, Sherlock! Don't do this!" The Doctor called out, but the detective merely glanced back at the Doctor for a moment before spreading his arms and allowing himself to fall over the edge.

The moments occurring after the fall seemed to happen in slow motion: the Doctor reached the ledge of the building and looked down, seeing a body on the pavement and the man he presumed to be John; John Watson, disorientated from being hit by a bike, ran as quick as he could to the body lying on the cold pavement, yet it wasn't quick enough. There was a whole crowd of people—doctors, nurses, shocked passersby—already surrounding the broken body by the time the military doctor had made it to his friend's side, and when he had gotten there, he could do little more than plead and reach out for the bleeding body of the man whom he believed to be his only true friend. The nurses restrained him and pulled him away from the body as the hospital employees lifted the limp body onto a stretcher and wheeled it away to the infirmary. John Watson was left to stare at the splatters and pools of crimson blood spread along the cracks of the sidewalk.

No one noticed the mysterious man with a bow tie standing on the rooftop break out a smile and begin to laugh.

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><p><strong>AN: how was this for a first chapter? i feel like it was a bit short and rushed, but that might just be because i usually write 4000+ word chapters for my other fanfic. <strong>

**im not sure if i wrote out Eleven exactly in character, but this was a pretty weird situation so my portrayal of him should hopefull get better over time (the same applies to my Sherlock)**

**reviews=love**


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